Black
Thursday, The Schweinfurt Mission

REALITY

By Wally Hoffman

"I did not die,
and did not remain alive; now think for thyself, if thou hast any grain
of ingenuity, what I became, deprived of both life and death"

-Dantes Inferno-

One
more time I realize there is that pesky flashlight in my face, and
I hear the invitation for  breakfast at five and briefing at
six." I lay there dragging my eyes open and getting my thoughts
together, little did I know how the reality of this fateful day would
end.

"Once one has reached the Point of No Return --
Reality then Begins".

This will be mission number
four. I wonder what hellish target is on that map in the Briefing Room?
We've been to Cologne, Bremen, Kassel and flew as a Spare yesterday. If
nothing else we are surely learning the geography of Germany. This time
around I shaved in warm water, as I had remembered to fill my helmet and
put it on the stove before going to bed. There had been hot water last night,
so had the luxury of a hot shower. I'm learning, as we seem to be getting
into a routine as I dressed from the clothes laid out the night before.

As
I walked out the door I looked at those empty beds and thought those guys
were here yesterday doing the same things I am doing today. Little did
I know that by tonight there would be a great many more empty beds as
over 60 of our planes would be shot down leaving 600 more empty beds.

Outside
it was not only black, it was foggy. I was thinking, would they have us
take off with this fog"? Walking into the Combat Mess there was that
same knot in my stomach, and those eggs were still staring at me. Sitting
down at the table there again was Bob (Sgt Robert Smith) with a
full plate with a blank look on his face. Resnik (S/Sgt John Resnik)
was no longer interested in eating too much after that first mission
when at altitude he ended up with terrific cramps. Soon we were
outside and again that hurry up and wait."

I began
thinking of some of the things you learn with each mission: (1) using
a condom to put over the mike in your oxygen mask to keep it dry, (2)
squeezing your oxygen mask so the ice doesn't clog it up, (3) then shaking
the ice out. I then began getting smart enough to carry two masks. Using
a condom to urinate, tying a knot in it, and then throwing it out as a
gift to Germany (When my children ask what I had done during the war I
told them, the pleasure of pissing all over Germany).

On
the first mission I had noticed soon after we left the target many of
the planes would again open their bomb bay doors and you would see one
or two cardboard chaff boxes come tumbling out (chaff were thin strips
of tinfoil used to confuse the German radar). When I ask about it I received
a big laugh and was advised this is Our Secret Weapon, you
will soon find out! On the trip to Bremen one of the crew had to answer
nature's call. He used one of the chaff boxes and we were also able to
bomb Germany twice on that trip.

You
can feel the fear, the dread, and the underlining thought
of death in the room

Suddenly
the doors to the Briefing Room swung open. Soon we are all enveloped
in a heavy smoke haze, with temperature increasing noticeably from
the body heat and everyone sweating out the mission. As I look around
I notice everyone is sitting at all angles and postures.

Some are sitting up straight
as a ramrod, and some are even sound asleep. .Others are engaged in animated
conversations with their neighbors while the rest are staring straight
ahead at nothing. You can feel the fear, the dread, and the underlining
thought of death in the room, but we are all are confident in our training
and each other

Suddenly
a nattily dressed Major (a ground pounder) steps on the stage and begins
roll call, calling the names of each crew commanders. Each answers for
his crew. The Major then moved to the back of the stage and drew the black
curtain of doom. This revealed the map, which dictated our lives for the
next fourteen hours. There is a hushed silence as everyone leans forward
looking at the fateful end of the red yarn. Its Schweinfurt
the Major says with a smile, and gives us time to think. Abruptly a buzz
of voices breaks out, and one voice says, Sonofabitch This is my
Last Mission, and it was!" as he was one of those who never
made it back.

The
Security Officer steps forward and instructs us, Do not talk about
the mission once you have left the room, and this also applies to a Scrubbed
Target. Anyone flying this mission who has not had POW (prisoner of war)
instruction report to the S-2 officer after this briefing. Be sure to
wear your dog tags, GI shoes, and dont wear any insignia. Carry
your rank, name and serial number, and no billfolds, pictures, nor letters.
No one will leave this briefing until dismissed." We were told this
at every briefing.

Everyone
is sitting up attentively listening to the intelligence officer. There
is no longer any screwing around for his instructions are life and death
to us. There is an immediate feeling of immense doom, which goes through
the briefing room, and no one tries to look at one another. We are all
thinking the same thing, Who will be missing from here tonight?
How many crews will get it today?

We
are advised the flak should be light enroute although we will pick up
some south of the Ruhr. About 500 88mm guns will defend the target and
the gun crews are very good. We would be under aimed fire from the flak
for seven minutes. The enemy fighters will be persistent and aggressive.
The fighters will try to break up the formation with head-on attacks.
Dont panic and try to dodge. This would leave you wide open if you
straggle. Always stay in the defensive diamond formations and if someone
ahead of you gets out of the formation, move right up into his place,
for he has either been hit and will go down anyway, or he is straggling.
We never dally around, because its our necks.

The
weather officer takes the stage and is the least assuring of all. The
weather is lousy. The visibility is down to 1/4 of a mile but we were
assured it would be up to one mile by take off. That is a lot better when
you are rolling down a runway, which is only a mile long, and the belly
of our plane is pregnant with stifled hell. The wings on the B-17s contain
three thousand gallons of 100 octane flaming inferno. Everyone starts
to leave as there it is, but some wait. They soon assemble in little groups
as men slip to their knees before their chaplains-Protestant, Catholic,
and Jew.

As
we walked into the ready room I was suddenly hit with this deep depression
and a feeling of dread as I thought, This is not the glamorized
Wild Blue Yonder we had all heard so many times. We will be fighting
5 miles above the earth. There are no foxholes to hide in up there.
Most of the time there isnt even the opportunity of fighting
back. you just sit there and take it.

We
will be fighting 5 miles above the earth. There are no foxholes
to hide in up there.

We live by the laws of
chance as we drive through the flak, which seems thick enough to walk
on. There is always that chance to be where the projectile shot at us
by random from the ground would intersect the plane and ourselves? We
are continually facing the life and death struggle of the plane with all
of us inside. Maybe some dead, perhaps some wounded, and some not even
scratched. At that moment all of our lives would reach a crisis in the
heaving and smoking plane from the freezing hostile sky. It wasnt
the anxiety of maybe being killed before the day ended, but a deeper far-off
feeling as if I werent operating within my own body. As I dressed,
in preparation for the long mission, I looked at the rest of the crew
with a detached and lonely sadness wondering will we still be together
tonight? No way did I want to expose my feelings to the crew for fear
they would feel I was not equal to doing my part, all of our lives depended
on each other.

In
kind of a dream I proceeded to our plane, and went through the motions
of the checklist for pre-flight. I was there physically doing all things
which were necessary, but seemed detached and totally out of my body I
had the feeling I was in another dimension watching what I was doing.
I was there, but wasn't there. Knowing we were in for a rough mission
and catch hell from the fighters we loaded many additional boxes of caliber
50 ammunition. Rechecked out our flak suits and helmets then all of us
made one last trip to the bushes to relieve ourselves.

All
too soon we were starting the engines, taxiing into position, moving down
the runway and again skimming those damn trees. We formed up at 28,000
feet then heading for Europe for what we didnt know and into Germany.
I was there, but as if I was doing everything necessary only by the numbers.

Suddenly
I heard on the intercom from the top turret Bandits 9:00 Oclock
High instantaneously followed by the tail and the nose of fighters
coming in from all directions. Immediately you could feel those 20 millimeters
going through the plane. The sound of a cannon shell hitting a fortress
depends on where you are. If you arent too close it is like a metallic
woof and you feel a jar that shakes the whole plane, which reaches you
and leaves you instantly. If the shell explodes close to you there is
nothing gentle and it certainly isnt a momentary tremor. It is like
a giant slapping his hand on the water. There are two sounds one from
the impact and the second of it exploding. It's like firing a shotgun
into a bucket which all comes back exploding in your face. For a moment
you arent scared because your senses are dulled. Your bowels seem
weak, (you tighten your pucker string); your stomach shrivels up until
you can figure out how much you are hurt. It was as if a huge electrical
shock had hit me and from then on to this day I have never felt fear.
It was as if my mind had gone into a corner to hide and had then come
charging out to do battle. In talking to others later, I found we all
have gone through some factors of this type of withdrawal. Some retreated
from themselves and would no longer be able perform.

I immediately
found myself in a world alien to everything I had ever experienced. There
were ME-109s and FW-190s leaping into existence from everywhere without
warning. When they opened fire you saw sudden flashes of light winking
at you from the distance. All at once there existed a canopy of cannon
shells and bombs, aerial mines and rockets exploding everywhere. Each
one was intent on hitting our pregnant bomb load and us. We are no longer
in a stately march in tight formation through the upper heavens. We try
desperately to return to the crisp efficiency of our tight formation,
but it is impossible to achieve in this raging space of time. We find
ourselves slogging our way through a thickening mass of exploding flame
and smoke, with the equal determination of every member of the crew. We
are driving ahead through a solid whirlwind of steel splinters, flame,
and jagged chunks of red hot metal. The steel is everywhere; it crashes
into wings, engines, bulkhead and airplane bodies; and into the bodies
of men--spewing blood, tissues, intestines, and brains.

The
plane seemingly is alive with lights as all the guns are firing and the
noise is deafening. There is the continued on the intercom shout of "incoming
bandits" from all around the clock (fighters). The fourteen caliber
50 machine guns of our plane can be heard and felt above all the roar
of the plane. Our world seems to plunge into insanity as the sounds of
air battle are all around us seemingly merging into an inhuman shriek.
Our ship doesnt seem to be occupied by men, we are transformed into
beings from another world, with the strange breathing systems dangling
beneath our faces.

As
quickly as it started the fighters are gone and we are alone with only
the extremely bright sun. Our enemy now is the temperature, which is minus
fifty degrees and never seems to relax its vigil against us for any exposure
to sensitive flesh and frostbite.

Central Germany
is now below us and in the distance we can the see first black specks
of flak over the target. We now begin to assess what battle damage
we had taken. Was everyone OK? Soon everyone was checking in: tail
OK except almost out of ammo and was reloading the belts; waist OK
lost my flak helmet

somewhere; Ball, one
of the side windows was hit, cant see anything except straight ahead;
Radio, OK; Top Turret "think I was hit in the leg and my ammunition
boxes are gone". It turns out that a 20 mm came through the turret
knocking out the ammo boxes on each side and tearing off his flight suit
at the thigh. He had a slight red mark on one leg. Ammo boxes were moved
in and connected to both guns with the hope they wouldnt jam.

In
the cockpit the gauges were still working but the glass on the dials looks
as if someone had taken a hammer to them. The radio compass is shattered
and the other radios are hanging by their connecting cords. All seem to
be working; at least the intercom is OK. The right portion of the windshield
in front of the co-pilot has two vicious looking cracks in it. The co-pilots
flak helmet was knocked off and has a huge hole in it. He doesnt
have a mark although I think he is turning gray. In the nose one of the
cheek guns is out, the navigators table is shattered as well as
his instruments. For all the holes our plane is still flying. It's a miracle
nobody has been seriously wounded.

When
we have turned on IP the bombardier is already looking for his aiming
point as the plane controls are hooked to the bombsight. Again the fighters
are coming in all directions, but this time it is the squadron ahead of
us. Soon the sky around us filled with flak burst, paving a solid black
steel asphalt roadway to Schweinfurt. The explosions sounds as if someone
is throwing rocks at you when they burst close. Those flak gunners on
the ground are good. Normally the fighters will usually leave when you
get into the flak from the target, this time they are flying through their
own flak. Apparently, they have been ordered to defend the target at all
costs. These fighters may be the enemy but I have never seen braver men.
All the German efforts to keep us from the target have so far failed,
but we have paid a tremendous price in men and planes. The stakes were
high but the "Devil" was the winner. The target below is now
fast deteriorating into smoke and debris as our strings of bombs walk
through the city. The dead will outnumber our losses by a great number.
Finally we feel the plane lighten in little jerks as the bombs pass out
the bomb bay on their way to Germany. We are now at the halfway point
of the mission as we begin a wide turn to the right. There is little need
to get into formation, as everyone is staying close. As we make our turn
one can see the other formations behind us. They look ragged and are still
under attack from the fighters.

The
target is covered with smoke and gray dust is rising from
the impact of the bombs.

The fighters are leaving the Cripples alone, going for
those planes still carrying bombs. As we turn you can see the target
below and the sticks of bombs on their five-mile flight to the earth.
The target is covered with smoke and gray dust is rising from the
impact of The bombs. As we look

out there are no fighters roaring in against us with their
guns winking at us. It seems so quiet and good to only hear the noise of
the engines and the air rushing by as our faithful girl hurtles us towards
our base in England. We are soon over France and a few fighters appear in
the distance but do not press any attack against us. We wonder are they
as low on ammunition and as tired as we are? We also now look for our little
friends and assume they must be busy somewhere else. The cloud cover comes
up to 20,000 feet and we are told to let down over the channel. Each group
will proceed to their base individually. We soon see the angry water of
the channel, and then are flying up the Wash (a large estuary
on the east coast of England). When the smoke stacks of Peterborough are
in sight we turn southwest and there is Polebrook below us. What a wonderful
sight, and how many times in the past twelve hours have we all wondered
if we'd ever see the base again?

As we cross the field preparing
to break into the landing pattern we can see the men on the handstands,
the meat wagons with the large red cross on the top, and the fire trucks
parked all along the runway. They are all watching us and counting the
bombers and trying to read the symbols as we fly over. All at once, there
are many red flares indicating wounded on board, and they will proceed
into the pattern and land first. Soon we are lined up with the runway
on our final approach, crossing the boundary of the field, begin the flare
and soon the wheels are finally touching the runway. We are again down
on mother earth. As the tail settles to the runway, there is a terrific
bang as if the plane had been ripped apart, followed with a loud screeching
of metal! Not only had the tail wheel blown but also the whole tail assembly
seems to be dragging behind the plane. The tower tells us we look like
a giant sparkler and as soon as we have completed our roll to pull off
the runway and get out of the plane. We find later that during the fighter
attacks the total frame just forward of the horizontal stabilizer had
been totally torn apart by the 20mm shells. Only the skin and the control
cables held it together. We complete our roll and moving off the runway
into the grass and mud. The faithful engines roar dies out and the
silence is followed by a mad dash of everyone from the plane. As we are
leaving the plane a fire truck and ambulance are johnny on the spot.

Our plane, "Morning Delight"
just seemed to set there panting. That gallant lady gave us all she had
and more for that total effort during the past 10 hours. She never flew
again as she was so heavily damaged and became another "Queen Bee's"--(used
for parts). You dont live and fly a fortress for months without
coming to know the plane in the most intimate way. You know the sturdy
construction she represents and how forgiving she is to fly. She is there
in our hearts, for all of us for the days to come if by chance we survive
this war.

We
retrieve our gear from the plane and are picked up by a truck. We
pass the handstands (parking and maintenance area for the plane) with
their waiting crews. They all wave and give us the victory sign. However,
many of these ground crews will soon silently and sadly return to
their headquarters as their plane and crewmen who were a part of them
did not return. They will wait
for a new bomber with a new combat crew
.

.
. . many of these ground crews will soon silently and sadly
return to their headquarters as their plane and crewmen who
were a part of them did not return.

We have the truck stop at
our hardstand so we can tell the crew chief and his people that we made
it. If it werent for the maintenance on that plane we would probably
be down somewhere in Germany and now a statistic. It is a little wonder
we have come to the realization it is impossible to complete a full tour.
Everyone comes to the conclusion you will either get it, or be shot down
eventually.

As we all proceed to de-briefing
you look around and the faces this morning, which had the look of expectation,
are now gray and blank. We are all thinking of too many friends who have
gone down in flames before our eyes. What about tomorrow and the tomorrow
after that? There are too many concrete handstands stained with oil and
grease where the bombers had once stood so majestically are now standing
empty, only a terrible aching void remains. A ground crewman is seen aimlessly
walking off looking as if he had lost his brother.

In the de-briefing room we all
sit around the table and this time the questions are quietly asked with
a great deal of consideration. How many fighters, types, and methods of
attack? Were there any special weapons or markings? How about the flak,
how much, did it appear accurate?

"I
had accepted the fact that I was not going to live through
this mission. It was as simple as that. I was calm; it was
a strange sort of resignation. I knew for certain that it
was only a matter of seconds or minutes. It was impossible
for us to survive...." (This sums it up for all of us).

THIS
IS A QUOTE FROM A POST MISSION BRIEFING OF A B-17 PILOT,
OCTOBER 12, 1943:

The
de-briefing is usually not so solemn, however, this time all of us
are totally engulfed by the shock of the mission. Most of us still
didnt believe we are here, safe on the ground. We are bone tired
(I still remember how tired I was all the time I flew combat) and
feel sick with the reflection of all that death. We somehow survived
but our friends and brothers were struck down, never to return from
that undiscovered country from whom no traveler returns. We all stare
at the floor with eyes glazed, smoke cigarettes, and drink tasteless
coffee. As we are leaving the briefing room we notice that Bob is
stumbling along. We see, as we look closer that he is crying-- for
all of us thinking of those who didnt get back.

Despite all these attacks
against our formations the 8th Air Force was never turned

back by enemy opposition and always bombed the target.

Thus ended
the fateful day when I was introduced to reality.

EPILOGUE

Schweinfurt, the mission
against the main ball bearing plant which supplied most of the German
war effort, was the "Gettysburg" of the 8th Air Force as it
was the bloodiest and worst loss of the Air War over Europe. We lost 65
planes ((60 over Germany) that day which meant 650 men were Missing in
Action The Germans threw everything at us but we still bombed the target.
At the time it was only another rough mission. Now 56 years later, I find
it is considered one of the pivotal events of World War II.

We will remember the battle, which took place
five miles up in the air where we fought to the death. There is no way
anyone could ever re-visit the battleground as it took place in the sky
which today is now washed clean. There are no scars and no one can walk
the battleground and say here by that hill is where it all took place.
There were neither bystanders nor any noncombatants with a first hand
look. All those who saw the battle were on the ground five miles or more
away, and they saw only the flaming planes, the parachutes, contrails,
explosions, smoke, and the charred bodies. Nor did they see the flak and
bullet riddled planes as they struggled home to an asphalt runway across
the English Channel. There no longer exists the roar of all those planes,
the flashing propellers, and the open hatches with the smoking 50 caliber
machine guns. The punishment of the long hours at sub zero temperature,
breathing oxygen in the frozen uncomfortable oxygen mask because of the
thin rarefied air.That page of blazing history is now closed, although
the scars of those of us who came home will always remain. It is always
easy to write of the battles won with the enemy conquered. We fought and
struggled to reach the target and on the way were mauled and shot to pieces
by the fighters and flak guns of the enemy.

The German pilots knew all too well their effectiveness against our bombers.
They witnessed the burning planes, bombers with the wings torn off, crews
tumbling through the air, and the burning bodies. How could those bomber
crews take such punishment and hand it back while continuing to fly towards
the target? There never was a question of not reaching the target, no
matter how many formations were split apart, how many bombers were in
flame, and how cruel the test. We continued on with white knuckles and
a tightened pucker string.

The
following is a quote from a tail gunner of the 388th Bomb Group.

"As
we left the coast of Europe the Luftwaffe disappeared. I bent
forward rested my head on the window and began to cry uncontrollably.
I stopped long enough to say "Thank You God". I
cannot to this day know from where came the voice "Trust
Me". But in my heart I knew I had NOT been alone in the
tail."

Schweinfurt,
Also on the Mission

Having shared that mission with you I am sending you my thoughts on
the October 14, 1943 mission to Schweinfurt. This took place during
my first tour, 388th Bomb Group, 560th Squadron. Second tour was with
the 92nd Bomb Group, 327th Squadron. You will find a photo of my brother
John (POW) and myself when we were in Vietnam. I enjoyed your story.

Gene Carson

Chuck Allred collared me and
cautioned, "We are getting up early tomorrow. They are loading
extra fuel." Chuck was right. We were up early. I looked at the
crummy weather and thought the mission would be scrubbed. We had the
usual breakfast, square eggs, Spam and SOS. I ate with caution. Being
shot at was bad enough, but being in discomfort while being shot at
did not make much sense. The word in the mess was the mission was going
to be a long one. The answer came from the horse's mouth when the briefing
room curtain was pulled back.

Schweinfurt! "Oh, Jesus no, not again," came from the back
of the room. "Holy Mother of God," came yet from another corner.
The line stretched on and on deep into the heartland of Germany. "This
is a very important mission," the briefing officer droned, "Germany's
ball bearing works must be destroyed." He continued to deliver
his message of what we could expect. He assured us, we would have fighter
escort almost to the Germany border and they would pick us up again
as we returned. However, we would be without fighter escort for over
four hundred miles. There was minimal talking. Everyone knew it was
going to be rough ride. We were scheduled to put up twenty-two aircraft
and be the low group of the lead Combat Wing of the 2nd Air Task Force.
The 96th Bomb Group would furnish the lead and high groups.

The day started off poorly. There was a crash on take-off. Lt. Swift,
pilot of "Hard Luck" had almost reached flying speed when
the No. 3 engine caught fire. Smoke came from the tires as he hit the
brakes. A crash was iminent. Lt. Smith ordered his copilot to pull the
wheels up and the take-off became a controlled crash. All personnel
escaped without injury. This delayed take-off until safety procedures
could be applied. All aircraft were diverted to another runway and the
area cleared in anticipation of the explosion. When it came it was spectacular.

The formation climbed up through the cloud cover. We were in clear skies
and out over the English channel, however; with one take-off crash and
five aborts for mechanical failure we were quickly reduced to a flight
of sixteen. I think we had been in the air about forty-five minutes.
I was busy checking my gear and test firing my guns. I had a feeling
of something being not quite right. It was not. My parachute was missing.
I had left my parachute bag on the hardstand! We were now 23,000 feet
and over one hundred miles from our base.

I knew if I reported my parachute as missing Dingle would turn back,
probably abort the mission. It would be impossible to describe my thoughts.
Terror may have been an inadequate description. I could not bring myself
tell the crew. All I could do was hope for the best. I am sure I sneaked
a few quick prayers in for good measure. I truly felt naked. I heard
a female voice clearly state, "Trust me." I quickly checked
my oxygen to be sure I was not suffering from anoxia. My connection
was in place. A sense of calm came over
me.

What would I do if we were hit and the crew had to bail? My plan was
probably ridiculous but it was the only plan I could think of. I would
try to make it to the cockpit and fly the crippled bird back to England
or crash
land. Good plan or not, there were no options. My basic thought was
a simple, "Oh Jesus!"

We crossed Belgium, and neared the German border our fighter escort
gave us a final waggle of wings and turned back. We had been on own
for only a few moments when the Luftwaffe arrived on the scene.

The Luftwaffe attacked us with almost everything they had. At times
they outnumbered us at five to one or more. They sat behind the formation,
out of range of the tail gunners, and lobbed rockets into our formation.
I watched them line up on the group below us and come in head on wingtip
to wingtip. Their courage was unquestionable. They came in six at a
time; diving and turning; in attempts to draw fire while another fighter
tried to make the kill. From the beginning of the first fighter attacks
the Luftwaffe stayed
with us. Long before we arrived over the target the sky was a constant
stream of bombers going down in flames, exploding with bodies and debris
claiming the sky.

Parachutes were everywhere. Luftwaffe aircraft were going down and exploding.
Their parachutes too dotted the sky; their different color allowed for
quick identification. Through some miracle all sixteen of our aircraft
made it to the target.

We dropped our bombs and turned for home. The intercom was a constant
chatter as the crew called out Luftwaffe fighter locations. I knelt
in silence. I had nothing to say. My tail guns were doing the talking
in short nasty bursts. No one had to tell me there were bandits at six
o'clock and there was no need for me to report their presence. The Luftwaffe
was everywhere. I was up to my ass in empty shell casings. We were being
mauled. I watched the decimation of the formations below and around
us. I could not see how we were going to make it home. There was however
a calmness in my heart; I felt as if someone was watching over me.

When we reached the Belgium border I searched the sky for sign of our
fighter escort. There was none. Our escort was weathered in. The Luftwaffe
continued to have a field day. Shell casing piled deeper at every gun
position. All gun positions were complaining about being short of ammunition.
Although I had quietly carried extra boxes on board before take off
each of my guns had less than one hundred rounds remaining. Almost every
round had been needed.

As we left the coast of Europe the Luftwaffe disappeared. I bent forward,
rested my head on the window and began to cry uncontrollably. I stopped
long enough to take a deep breath and say, "Thank you God."
I could not tell to this day from where came the voice with the words,
"Trust me." But in my heart I knew I had not been alone in
the tail. I regained my composure and courage returned. I whistled and
Ed Meginnies responded. "Damn you Wing." (He was called "Wing-Ding"
by his crew.)